Antiheroine: Consequences
by vkerinav
Summary: Spectre Kara Shepard's actions have shaken the Alliance, but what are the effects on the ground? This collection of short stories will attempt to answer that question, though the eyes of various OCs.


So, instead of being a good host and finishing Antiheroine already, I've spent my last two weeks writing this. If you haven't read Kara Shepard's journey, this will contain spoilers, though not major ones, and not for anything that hasn't been posted. Part two will wait until I've finished the main story, though.

A number of reviews of Antiheroine brought up consequences for Kara's actions. She had considered the possibilities, as time has allowed, though she is neither prescient nor omniscient. What really happens, or some of what happens, will be explored here, mostly through original characters.

If you haven't read the story on which this is based, but insist on reading this one anyway, and those of you who might want a refresher, I'm going to set the stage with a single important date:

**31 May, 2183**: The Alliance Defense Committee Resigns under allegation of Cerberus Collaboration, offering the life of Admiral Kahoku in exchange for Kara Shepard's capture. Fleet Admiral Steven Hackett is given full command of the Navy, until a new one can be appointed.

* * *

_Uprising, Part One_

**7 June, 2183, New Texas**

Major Naija Herrero stepped out of the supply shuttle and onto the dusty concrete of New Texas' tiny spaceport. It was like walking from a meat locker into an oven, the temperature of nearly forty degrees, causing her suit's thermal control systems to kick in. The were sufficient to keep her from sweating too profusely in the dry heat.

"Forward, march!" snapped the rough voice of Gunnery Chief Karl Regent, a tough and greying old soldier, who had followed her from her last assignment. He was no more pleased than she with their dirtside transfer, but they agreed that the shift in posture ordered by Admiral Hackett was a step in the right direction. Adding pomp and circumstance to their arrival was his idea, and he marched their troop of fourteen marines out of the shuttle in well-polished armor, following a pair of their comrades bearing the colors of the Alliance and Colonial Administration. An equally presentable M29 Grizzly rolled out of the second shuttle, halting in line with her troops. It looked impressive, certainly, but they were slated to receive an A61 Mantis gunship in a few days, a vehicle much more suited to the sort of rapid-response they would need to implement.

"Major."

Naija almost didn't realize that her second in command, Andrej Sieczkowski, was talking to her, until he laid a hand on her arm. She had yet to grow accustomed to her knew rank, given her to make a small garrison seem more important than it was. The pale, wiry biotic gestured towards an approaching man, grey bearded and neatly dressed. The governor of New Texas had been informed of their arrival, and this was presumably his representative. Behind him, a collection of spectators, mostly men, and not officials by the state of their clothing, had gathered to enjoy the show. She offered him her hand, and a friendly smile.

He ignored her, shaking Andrej's hand, instead. "Major Hererro, I'm Nathaniel Cooper. I'd like to welcome you and your men to New Texas, on behalf of Governor Allen, the citizens of our fine world."

"Lieftenant Commander Sieczkowski, actually. Zis is Major 'Ererro."

It was a poor start to their relationship, to say the least. Her face was already flushed from the heat, but he could not mistake her irritated frown. "Well?"

"M-miss Hererro—"

"Major," she corrected sharply. Was he really so dense that he simply could not comprehend that a woman was in command, or was the entire colony so backwards? Whichever assistant had drawn up the assignments for Admiral Hackett had clearly not done their homework. Though from what she'd heard, the border colonies were _all_ backwards. No matter; she was a marine, and would do her duty.

"Major Hererro, I'd like to…"

Naija waited for him finish his brief welcome speech for a second time, before responding. "Thank you, sir," she said, with emphatic politeness. "I'd like to speak with the governor as soon as possible, and the leader of whatever militia you may have."

"I'll see to it, ma'am," he said, his smile gone smooth. "And may I say, it's a pleasure to welcome such an attractive, and I'm sure very professional, woman to our small colony."

She shook her head, failing to suppress and amused smile. His patronizing attitude was no less insulting than his earlier misstep, and far from comfortable, but she had to keep up appearances. "You may, sir, but I think you're more Andrej's type."

Nathaniel paled beneath his wide-brimmed hat. This time, Naija managed to suppress her smirk.

* * *

**14 June**

The sun overhead blazed orange through the cloudless blue sky, stirring a hot, dry wind that rustled through the tall grasses of mid-summer. The air tasted of sweet native wildflowers, patches of blood-red _freedomgrass_ blossoms and pale green _mossflowers_, and dotted with fading white _lonestar_, which had peaked the week before. As the season progressed, the prairie would turn silvery as the grasses dried, and purple-and-gold _kingsfoil_ flowers would open, the last until the autumn rains.

Andrew Davis stood on a hill, sweating heavily in a thin cotton t-shirt and jeans, despite the shelter of an old white oak, planted by his great grandfather almost ninety years ago. He barely remembered the man, who'd brought a wife and child with him to the dusty world beyond the edge of Alliance space, fleeing the end of the disastrous War of Texan Independence, waged against the fascist remnants of the Fed. More than five hundred thousand people were said to have died when old Uncle Sam had dropped a nuke on Houston, and scattered radioactive waste across the southern plains.

More than half a century later, on the far side of Alliance space, the First Contact War became humanity's introduction to alien life. It had meant nothing to the Citizens of New Texas, but three years later the first Batarian raid had come. His people were mostly farmers, at the time, with contact even with other humans being a rarity, and were defenseless against pirate troops equipped with kinetic barriers and mass effect powered rifles. Andrew's great grandfather had died in the first bloody day, defending his wife and daughter-in-law. Despite the too-frequent bloodletting, the New Texas had continued to expand, as more people arrived from Earth, seeking freedom from overpopulation, and from the persecution of Christians and decent caucasian folk by the new powers in Asia and South America.

Andrew had been born the next year, on 3 November, 2161, and survived fifteen raids against the colony. He had seen his mother raped, and dragged off with a slave collar around her neck, when he was six and hid in the cupboard, and had vowed never to be so helpless again. He killed his first Batarian when he was fourteen, and added to his count with every raid since. He hated the four-eyed alien freaks, and resented the inaction of the Alliance, which their recent arrival hadn't helped. Twenty marines, led by a black woman, of all things, was far from his idea of quality help.

He frowned down at the grave at his feet. The headstone was dated one month ago exactly, and marked the resting place of John Alexander Davis, sixteen years old, the latest casualty of the slavers. He had died begging for his life, like a helpless woman, while Andrew tried to save him.

He had taken vengeance on the killer, only to find a human face behind the Batarian helmet. Almost since the beginning, the colonists had found an occasional humans who had 'gone Batarian', taking up piracy with the support of the aliens, and joining, or even leading, the raids. Their remains were cremated, and sprinkled with Holy Water, before being stored in a special vault beneath the First Baptist Church of New Texas. They called it the Tomb of the Damned.

The graveyard on the hill was for martyrs only, those killed by the slavers. His great grandparents were there, and his grandfather. Each family plot had a special marker for those relatives who were taken; his named his grandmother, his mother, and an older brother he had never even known. His cousins were listed with their father's family, instead, but he mourn them, and there were others, too, good friends and mentors. After twenty years there wasn't a soul on New Texas that didn't know someone buried there, in the sight of God, on that beautiful hill.

He offered a prayer for them, letting it float up from his soul like a gold sea-lotus from the shallows of Lake Dallas, just visible on the horizon, and trusted that God would hear.

* * *

**22 June**

Leaning on her shovel, Naija swallowed hot water from her canteen. When she arrived, she had found the temperatures uncomfortable, only to find them regularly climbing regularly into the low forties, the only reprieve being the occasional breeze off Lake Dallas. Still she was a marine, and Alliance marines didn't shirk from hard work, not even clearing mud from irrigation ditches with surprisingly primitive tools. Hooking the canteen back on her belt, she rolled the hem of her tight tank-top up, exposing more of her taunt stomach to the shy eyes of her fellow worker. "Hey, Andrew, you are gonna buy me a drink when this is done, right?"

"Sure, ma'am," the young man replied. He was a native of New Texas, second generation, and a mere twenty-one years old, dark-haired and clean shaven. Also, shirtless, his tanned, well-muscled torso covered in sweat; not the sort of thing a girl could easily resist, especially with his moody brevity. Indeed, with the heat and all, it was a struggle for her not to swoon.

Grinning at the image, Naija resumed her work. She had started out helping the locals in her spare time the week after she arrived, hoping to understand their resistance to her presence. Part of it was sexism, but that was surface stuff, hiding deeper concerns. There was some hostility towards the Alliance, more out of principle than any harm done—most of them weren't even aware of the resignation of the Defense Committee for its alleged collaboration with Cerberus. They did resent its failure to protect them, despite the taxes they paid.

The real core of it, if it weren't just them romanticizing them, was an independence of spirit, which had driven the founders beyond the confines of Alliance space. They did for themselves, taming the wilderness without much in the way of modern technology, and no support from Earth. Then they survived thirty years of slaver raids by Batarians with hunting rifles and willpower, defending themselves when they could, and accepting their losses when they couldn't. They needed the help, but, after so long on their own, they didn't want it, and more than a few of them resented it.

"Have you given any thought to joining the militia?" she asked, pitching a shovel full of mud onto the growing pile. She hadn't intended to raise the subject, at least not yet, but conversation eased the work, even if it was one-sided.

"Ain't no need." His muscles rippled as he hefted another load. It was dirty work, as well as hard, and they would both need a shower when it ended. It might have been her spacer upbringing, but she hated feeling dirty—maybe he could help her wash her—

She forced the though to the back of her mind, focusing on the work. It was more than uncomfortable enough without her getting aroused over fantasies. "There are trillions of Batarians out there, Andrew, and most them don't have much more than you. A lot of them see slave raids as a way to get rich, so don't think you're going to wear them out through attrition."

"Then you stop 'em."

Naija shook her head. She had a total of twenty marines under her command, and a pair of pilots. They would have a hard enough time mobilizing for threat response if the enemy wasn't clever in their approach. A single missile could take out a Mantis, or the AP31 Condor personnel carrier, which Hackett had also sent her, potentially killing most of her marines before they could even deploy. "I'd need a hundred troops to properly defend a colony of this size, and even that would be a struggle. All I'd need you to do is keep the raiding parties pinned down long enough for us to hit their shuttles, then swing around and finish them off, that'll put a real hurt on their profitability. No profit, no raids."

Of course, she knew, as he didn't, that the raids were as much about politics as profit, and would continue so long as the Batarian government sponsored them. She saw two possibilities for ending that; some sort of peaceful accord between the Alliance and Hegemony, or a war.

"We do for ourselves, ma'am. Always have."

Naija gritted her teeth; wasn't that what she was proposing? She knew she wanted to jump on the man, she was becoming accustomed to the confusion between her desire to tear off his clothes, or beat some sense into him. Well, if Admiral Hackett could contain the raiders in space, then she was worrying for nothing, but she doubted that was possible. So would the Admiral, and as a decent strategist, she knew he had to have a backup plan, and that she was part of it. He was relying on her, and that meant she couldn't give up.

* * *

**28 June**

"Have we got ID on that frigate, yet?" Naija asked, clinging to the handgrip in the Condor's cabin. The AT31s were going on in years, but still offered a swift but unmaneuverable option for deploying up to sixteen fully-equipped marines. They weren't stylish, but made for a much-needed alternative to the gunship's four-marine cargo hold.

"It's the _Haj_—um, _Hay_—uh," struggled the copilot, a young lieutenant who had arrived with the craft. _Hajime_, was the name on her screen, and about all Naija could make out from her position. "Confirmed pirates, ma'am. The real thing, wanted for pillaging the space lanes."

Raiding freighters was a risky business, only worthwhile with an inside source to mark ships with lucrative loads. Hackett's fleet redeployment must have made them desperate, if they had stooped to looting houses.

"Okay, listen up," Naija said, turning to face the rear compartment, where twelve of her marines waited for deployment. "They're pirates, not slavers, so we shouldn't have to worry about civilians getting caught in the crossfire, but don't get sloppy. Check your target before you shoot, and use concussion grenades only. I want them driven out of the city, where Dal can clean them up with the Mantis, so don't let them hole up. Keep them moving. Is that understood?"

"Yes ma'am!" they replied, almost in unison.

Naija turned to the front of the craft again. She could see an infrared scan of the area in front of them, on one of the display, and there a multitude of form scurrying about, half a kilometer ahead of them. "Bring us down here," she told the pilot, before switching on her suit comm. "Mantis Delta-one, come in."

"_This is Delta-one. Go ahead, Major,_" replied Lieutenant Commander Dalenka Prochazka, her usually expressive voice dryly professional.

"Begin insertion. Tell Sieczkowski I want the prize."

"_Confirmed, ma'am. We are five minutes from dropping our cargo. Delta-one out_."

The cargo she referred to was Sieczkowski, and three of her best marines, and the target was the pirate's ship. When they had set up the plan, they hadn't actually expected anything bigger than a combat shuttle, dropped from one of the kitted out freighters that were usually preferred by raiders. She could only hope it would still work out.

* * *

Andrew clutched a torn piece of his shirt against his bleeding arm, as he took shelter in the shadow of someone's house—the Cooper's, as if it mattered. He had stumbled into the group of raiders by accident, having failed to notice their shuttle land, and barely ducked a swing from a rifle butt that might have laid him out right then. He could hear their mocking shouts that he should come out and face them. He was no coward, there had been four at the time, wearing battered, human-made armor.

He had taken a bullet in his arm, escaping them the first time. That had been more terrifying than he expected, the hail of bullets exploding into the dirt around him—he'd been threatened with guns before, but never shot at—but the actually wound hadn't hurt that much. Tearing off another strip from his shirt, he attempted to die the makeshift pad in place, using his teeth to hold one of the ends.

From what little he'd seen of it the raid was fairly typical. They would land their shuttle a kilometer or two away from New Houston, at some isolated farmhouse, to hide the noise of their descent, and ride the rest of the way in stolen trucks. Then they would spread out in teams of three or four, searching houses for anything of value, grabbing a few slaves, and fleeing before a response could be mustered.

Now, that didn't always work out for them. The colonists had ways of warning their neighbors, but they had no weapons or armor set up a proper counterattack. That was why he wouldn't join the militia; without proper equipment, they were little more than targets.

"Hey, look," someone said loudly, not more than ten meters away. "Fresh blood. That pig-ignorant pig-fucker came this way."

"Keep it down, would you," a second voice snapped. "You'll raise a fucking mob with your bellowing. Ah, what the fuck are we doing on this shit-hole planet, anyway?"

Five meters. Andrew knelt, and pulled his great grandfather's combat knife from his boot, and edged towards the side of the building. He kept it lethally sharp, and never left for town without it. He held his breath.

"You heard the Captain—" The first man walked past the side of the house without even looking, and it proved to be his last mistake. Andrew grabbed him, jabbing the knife through the tough fabric that protected his throat.

Dragging the knife through cloth and flesh, Andrew threw him at his more cautious companion. They both went down in a heap, with a gasp of horror from the living man. They had probably been friends, or at least comrades, but they were thieves, killers, and possibly slavers, who deserved no mercy.

Rushing the survivor, Andrew kicked him rifle away, and pinned him down. Even in the dim moonlight, the fear in his eyes was unmistakable, behind the blood-spattered visor of his helmet. Even killers feared death.

Finishing the man swiftly, Andrew began to search the bodies for medical supplies. Raiders often carried medi-gel, a sort of easy-application bandage, but these two had nothing but a few spare clips for their weapons. He scowled in frustration, and checked him arm. The wound was bleeding worse than before, and as much as he wanted to stay and hunt, he didn't think he had much time. He cursed himself for letting down his guard, for letting his mind wander, for—

_Shit_. He scrambled back into the shadows. In his haste, he slammed injured-arm first into the wall, and bit his tongue to keep from crying out as a third person appeared, a woman, this time from the opposite side. She must have circled around, hoping to trap him. When her eyes fell on him, he felt sure that it had worked, only she ignored him moving to check on the two corpses.

Another two armored soldiers followed her, the man sticking close, while a second woman hung back. Very professional of her; had he tried to attack, she would see him move. His best chance was to stay hidden.

"Did you do this, friend?" inquired the first woman.

Andrew breathed a sigh of relief, when he heard that familiar voice. "Naija. Praise Jesus." He sent up a more appropriate prayer to that effect, as he stumbled back into the moonlight. "Got shot."

Naija stood, waving at her male follower, who switched on a wrist-light, and shined it on Andrew. "Don't tell me," she said, as she pulled off his makeshift bandage and checked the wound, "you challenged the lot of them to a staring contest, and they didn't play fair."

Andrew flushed. He didn't like having her think of him as a fool. Taking a sterile cloth from the medkit on her belt, she wiped blood from his arm with armored hands. It was no work for a woman, and he cursed himself for not finding a way to take care of it without her help. "Ain't nothin'," he muttered, pulling away.

"If I have to beat you senseless to get you to hold still, I'll do it," the marine officer frowned. Despite the irritated edge to her voice, it was backed by stern authority. He stiffened but didn't back off when she took his arm again, squirting medi-gel onto the wound, and sprayed it with a setting agent, to keep it from sliding off.

"There," she said, releasing him. The marine shut off his light. "Now, think with your brain for once and keep out of sight 'till this is over."

Her voice had that air of command again, but he was still capable of fighting. "Now, you don' go given me orders, woman—"

Naija's knee connected with his groin, more than hard enough to hurt. For some reason, the contact brought up memories of the last time her had touched him there, her strong hand firm on him, guiding him in, and the warm, wet feel of her surrounding him. He tried to dispel the thoughts, before his arousal finished, but his aching balls wouldn't allow it. No way would he be effective in _that_ condition. "Yes, ma'am," he muttered, hoping the others hadn't seen. Hoping she didn't see, either.

* * *

**30 June**

The _Hajime_'s attack had actually been a lucky break, at least from Naija's perspective. They were space-pirates, not raiders, and when Andrej had led the attack of their ship, it had gone with remarkable ease, neutralizing the scant crew in less than ten minutes, while the majority of her marines fought off the twenty-man landing party. They hadn't been organized in their looting, going house to house without much concern for anything, leaving them scattered and vulnerable when the counterattack came.

Things went so well that Naija had allowed Andrej to bring the _Hajime_ to their rescue, allowing them to retreat into a sealed cargo bay. When he had opened the external door again, the survivors found themselves looking down the barrel of a Grizzly, back by twelve armed marines, and had wisely chosen to surrender. Those who had killed during the raid would be tried on New Texas, and executed for their crimes, while the rest were to be shipped back to the Alliance.

Naija had wanted a colonial militia, to ease the burden on her own command, put didn't have the resources to provide the necessary equipment; now they had it. Twenty sets of combat armor, and a stash of small arms, mostly pistols and rifles, all in serviceable condition. "Commander, have I told you yet," she said, grinning at her chief lieutenant, "that was some damn fine work you did?"

"Many times, marm," Andrej smirked, "but it vould not 'ave been possible vitout your leadership."

Folding her arms across her chest, Naija laughed. "Flatterer. You bucking for a promotion, or do you want another medal?"

"Miss Naija?"

Closing her eyes, Naija let out her breath in a silent groan. She was beginning to dislike Andrew. He'd kept up a subdued flirtatiousness since they'd had sex, but he'd become unbearable in the last two days, always hanging around with his mournful expression. It hadn't even been very good; his clumsy virgin groping was hardly endearing, and he'd come too soon, leaving her to finish herself off while he muttered about how amazing her was. Worse, she suspected he wanted more from her than another roll in the sack.

Unfortunately, the young men most likely to form the bulk of the militia looked to him as some sort of holy warrior, so she couldn't just send him packing. She didn't intend to grin and bear it, either. "If you haven't changed your mind, Andrew, I'm not sure I have time for this conversation."

"Might do. Worried 'bout the old man."

Michael Davis was in his mid forties, with a peaceful nature, and about as far from helpless as anyone she'd ever met. "He can handle the farm without you."

"Aye, though he needs a woman 'bout the place. Its B'tarians I'm worryin' on."

Always the Batarians. According to Admiral Hackett's latest briefing, raids in the Attican Traverse had all but stopped since the beginning of the month. He was a good man, who looked out for his troops, including their morale, so she didn't quite believe his claim that it was due to the redeployment. She suspected that the Hegemony's rulers had reasons of their own for cooling things down, and that the redeployment provided them a means of hiding their involvement—that the raiders really were independent, and the risks now outweighed the rewards.

Or… she wondered if she had jumped on the wrong half of Andrew's statement, and it was really some sort of twisted proposal. Marry me, and I'll join your militia? There wasn't a chance in hell of her agreeing with that one. "Jesus Fucking Christ," she snapped, knowing it would irritate him, "helping keep everyone safe is the whole point."

"Now don't you go takin'—"

"I'm not one of your fucking colonials, Andrew, and I don't worship your backwards god," Naija continued. "I'm sick of your foot-dragging. You know what? I'm getting fucking sick of you, too."

Andrej laid a hand of her arm, and shook his head. "'Ees afraid of you, maybe? Does not vant to get 'ees ass kicked by a girl?"

Her colonial suitor's tanned skin had already turned an angry shade of red at her words, but now his expression turned furious. "Ain't so!"

Naija's burst of anger dissipated into a struggle to keep from smiling. She had let her temper get out of hand, a weakness which a good commander could not afford. It reduced tactical thinking to mere instinct, and instincts were what had gotten her into Andrew's bed to begin with. That had clearly been a mistake. "Sounds like you hit a nerve, Andrej. You think I should put him down?"

"Painfully, marm. If you vin, ee joins zee militia."

And if he won, he would no longer have a reason to refuse. "Let's do this," she grinned, pulling open her uniform tunic and tossing it on her desk.

Andrew grunted his ascent, or something akin to it. She wasn't really certain, and the ambiguousness of it annoyed her.

"Ready?" Andrej asked. He was smirking, obviously anticipating her quick victory.

A trained marines versus a farmer did sound like a safe bet, but Naija didn't share his certainty. Her focus had always been more on the tech side than physical combat; she was good, but not great, and Andrew was clearly dangerous. She did like a challenge. "Yes," she said, her assent mirrored by a grunt from her opponent.

"Zen begin."

* * *

**28 June, _SSV Aranjuez_**

Lieutenant Commander James Mordi was in the officer's mess when the news came in. The bearded ANN newscaster had cut directly to the Hegemony's spokesman, Tal'hiroth Anol, as he detailed their allegations. Somehow, they had gotten ahold of documents that, they claimed, proved Alliance collaboration with the pro-human terrorist group Cerberus in a scheme to build anti-Batarian sentiment through false-flag attacks on human colonies. The goal of this campaign, he said, was to ultimately secure support for an aggressive war against the Batarians, with some sort of large incident as the final pretext. A string of the usual pundits and questionable experts had followed him with predictable denouncements of his threats and lies.

Actually, Mordi thought Anol had been remarkably restrained, neglecting both threats and the hyperbole they usually threw at their human neighbors, and he felt it lent weight to their charges. A reasonable next step, he supposed, would be to let Prime Minister Zhuang issue a formal denial, and then release documentary proof. At present, they had given no one any reason to believe them, though a clever observer could make some observations that lent them peripheral support.

For example, the Hegemony had been unusually silent for about two weeks. Fourteen days ago, Ka'hairal Balak had turned himself over to Alliance custody on an asteroid in the Asgard system, which contained the large human colony of Terra Nova. No one was quite sure why the slave-trading Batarian had surrendered, rather than escaping with his crew, when their planned terrorist attack had gone sideways, but Admiral Hackett had still sent him back to Arcturus Station for trial. Under the watchful eye of the Council, his captors had been careful to treat him as a prisoner of war, while prosecution and defense prepared for a court date in less than a week.

Mordi had figured that for an unreasonably short time in which to assemble a case, but now it seemed that the trial and Anol's accusations were connected. By what, he couldn't be certain, but there were rumors of former Alliance officer Kara Shepard's presence in the system on the day Balak surrendered, and the Alliance Ministry of Justice had charged her with treason within a day. The specific charges were of espionage and aiding the enemy.

Spectre Shepard was a loose cannon, who had done more damage to Alliance-Council relations than anyone save the Turian commander who'd fired the first shots of the First Contact War, but she had already brought down the Defense Committee with evidence-backed allegations of Cerberus collaboration. If she was the source of the Batarian's documentation, then they deserved serious attention. The next round of resignations might include Prime Minister Zhuang, and most of his administration.

Given his thirty-percent approval figures, that would not be a bad thing, but Mordi worried about who might take his place. More to the point, politicians had perennially bad approval ratings, especially in the colonies, but the Alliance itself did reasonably well. If that changed… well, the consequences could be disastrous. Riots and revolts, particularly on those outlying colonies most effected by raiders, seemed likely. The garrisons on those worlds, soldiers not unlike himself, were the one who'd be caught between morality and orders from above. Not the Prime Minister, who was meant to protect and preserve the Alliance, or Kara Shepard, who seemed set on destroying it.

Whatever else happened, the riots would become violent, and people would die. Hackett clearly agreed, and had put colonial garrisons all along the frontier on high alert, as well as standing orders to fleet captains to evacuate them at the discretion of their commanders. He understood that a massacre, or a mass lynching, would be the worst possible outcome for all sides, further building resentments until… what?

Anyway, he was letting his thoughts get too morbid. There was always the possibility that the Hegemony's charges were fake, and that, with Balak's show trial to act as a counter, they would simply blow over.

* * *

_I know, I'm not very good at accents! And I'm leaving you with a cliffhanger(I haven't actually decided who won that fight)._

_Anyway, thanks for reading. If you haven't read Antiheroine, I would certainly recommend it; and leave a review._

_PS. This story should not be taken as indictment of Texas, or the inhabitants thereof. Also, many of the opinions expressed above are not my own._


End file.
